


Lead Poisoning

by DidjaMissMe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Kidnapping, Light Torture, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Reichenbach, Seb gets captured, Seb thinks Jim is dead, Sebastian Whump, Sherlock and John are not The Bad Guys, Snark, Suicidal Thoughts, They just don't know what they're getting in to, Torture, Whump, aka Sebastian is ready to die and take everyone down with him, he isn't, surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 21:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidjaMissMe/pseuds/DidjaMissMe
Summary: There's sunlight slipping in from a window, and even if Sebastian can't tell if it's from his left or right or hell, directly above, he can tell that it's way too fucking bright.His instincts cause him to blink rapidly to pathetically try to fight off the blinding light, which is a lot harder than it sounds when your ears are ringing loud and your eye is swollen shut and your head is annoyingly pulsating. He must be a sight to see, being tied up and angrily blinking like a glitching robot trying to fight the fucking sun."For bloody fuck's sake, can you turn that blasted light off?" Sebastian's own voice surprises him - both in the deep gravel of what must a 150 year old sailor who chainsmokes, and the fierce energy radiating through him to be able to wake up and fucking bark into the unknown that is his cell.But hey, he's angry, in pain, and his face fucking itches so he couldn't give two fucking hoots about being a respectful prisoner because he 1) doesn't want to be here, 2) doesn't fucking care about what they want, and 3) would rather die than deal with people right now.Sebastian could never really count on getting what he wanted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updated from the original snippet - officially a two parter based off a post by unsenttextstomoran .

If there's one thing Sebastian is _intimately_ familiar with, it's pain.

All the different types of pain. The sting of a paper cut, the fiery chilling spread of a bullet ripping through muscle, the soreness of lying flat on a roof for hours on end, and, most recently - the wrenching betrayal and painful, throbbing ache of emptiness in his chest.

(Not to be dramatic, or anything)

(Drama was never really Sebastian's thing. _He_ was always the dram-)

Yeah, pain. This pain, however, was the dreaded kind.

Sebastian could feel himself ebbing in and out of consciousness, grabbing a hold of awareness long enough to feel the aches and pains but letting it slip through his fingers so none of it really stuck. The worst part about this sort of pain, though, was the acknowledgement that it will still come. He will eventually wake up and meet the full brunt force of what must be the worst hangover of his life, and he will eventually have to deal with it.

There's enough dread in that single thought to push him back under, just to procrastinate the inevitable.

Sure, he will eventually heal. The day will eventually end, he'll eventually go back to sleep, and he'll eventually wake up again. Day in, day out. Again. And again.

This hangover will eventually heal, but Sebastian knows there are some things time can't fix (l ~~ike a bullet to the head, blood pooling on the hospital rooftop~~ ). And eventually, he'll find his way back to the bottle. What a vicious cycle. He absolutely can't wait to start it over again. So exciting.

but.... there's something different about this hangover. A new addition to the pain. Ugh - he was waking up enough, gaining enough awareness to feel his physical presence. His hands ached, down to the bone, like he punched a wall before passing out on top of them, and that ache was punctuated with the sting of an open cut mixed with air and -

He was tied up?

Sebastian was _definitely_ awake now. Not enough to open his eyes and communicate, but awake enough to know falling back under was definitely out of the question.

Yeah, there's definitely rope around his wrists.

He shifts, subtly. Feels the grinding stretch in his shoulders, the bruising pressure on his legs, the cotton in his mouth, the jackhammer between his ears, and realizes that this pain is definitely more than a hangover.

On the plus side, he doesn't feel the characteristically heavy itch in his veins that come with a post-drugged pain, so at least there's that.

The pain becomes a mass conglomerate that throbs in a horrendous unison throughout his body, as Sebastian gains more awareness bit by bit. Sebastian comes to, keeping his eyes shut. He can tell he's tied to a chair with a hefty amount of rope around his wrists and ankles, and by the feel of the rest of his body, being unconscious was not by his choice. He considers keeping his eyes shut, feigning sleep to try to overhear and recon the shit out of his captors, but forgoes that idea with the sentiment that _he doesn't give a fuck._

He attempts to open his eyes, get a look around, notify anyone that needs to know that _hey! He's ready for the next round, shitheads!_ but finds it near impossible. His left eye unmistakingly stings with a sticky weight of being swollen shut, and he almost passes out from the pain of trying to pry his eyes open.

But it's been said before and it'll be said again - if there's one thing Sebastian is _intimately_ familiar with, it's pain.

So he toughs it out. Doesn't care if his body isn't ready for his captors to start back in again, cause _he's_ ready - Ready to dive back in, go too far, and get knocked back asleep (and if he's lucky, maybe this time he won't have to wake back up to the throbbing dread of a headache and realization that he's still stuck in this fucking reality).

It's with a final groan slipping out of his lips that he's able to push himself further and completely open his eyes - and immediately regret it. There's sunlight slipping in from a window, and even if Sebastian can't tell if it's from his left or right or hell, directly above, he can tell that it's way too fucking _bright_.

His instincts cause him to blink rapidly to pathetically try to fight off the blinding light, which is a lot harder than it sounds when your ears are ringing loud and your eye is swollen shut and your head is annoyingly pulsating. He must be a sight to see, being tied up and angrily blinking like a glitching robot trying to _fight the fucking sun._

Wait - maybe it's a torch? Wouldn't be the first time some asshat thinks they're being clever by shining a bright-ass light into his face like a goddamn american noir detective show.

The audacity makes him hate his unknown captors even more.

"For bloody fuck's sake, can you turn that blasted light _off?_ " Sebastian's own voice surprises him - both in the deep gravel of what must a 150 year old sailor who chainsmokes, and the fierce energy radiating through him to be able to wake up and fucking bark into the unknown that is his cell.

But hey, he's angry, in pain, and his face fucking itches so he couldn't give two fucking hoots about being a respectful prisoner because he 1) doesn't' want to be here, 2) doesn't fucking care about what they want, and 3) would rather die than deal with people right now.

There's a sudden shuffling around him, followed by a stilted silence; Sebastian is still attempting to fight off the light and the pain long enough to get a grasp of the world around him, but he's aware enough to know that someone stops right in front of him.

"Well, I've been reliably informed that one can not, in fact, altercate the physics of the solar system, but we can draw the blinds." This voice is familiar. It instinctually sends an icy chill down Sebastian's spine, even if his brain is not functioning well enough to place why the voice connotes danger.

But blinds must have been drawn, since the light becomes easier to handle and Sebastian is (finally) able to open his eyes (relatively).

And feels a metaphorical bucket of ice engulf him, numbing out all pain and any annoyance that might have been clouding his thoughts. His brain is suddenly an efficient, oiled machine on high alert. Nothing else matters, and Sebastian shows that through suddenly cold, dead eyes and a slow growing shark's smile.

"Well, if it ain't the infamous Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead." A part of his brain (that instinctual, lizard brain trained and drummed into completing these menial tasks to keep him alive) is a good little private, gathering details and relaying back to Sebastian that he is indeed tied to a chair, that must be John Watson at the window fixing the curtains, and that he is physically located in a messy living room - easily recognized as 221B Baker Street as Sebastian has often watched from across the street quaint little clients walk up those creaky steps and into the same exact chair he finds himself tied to.

But none of that matters.

For the rest of his brain is chillingly focused on the man standing in front of him - all buttoned up shirt rolled up to the elbows, hair tousled from running hands through it, and dried blood flaking off his white knuckles. All his attention is on the detective, all his cold, hard, anger is shining through his eyes, and he clenches his jaw against the fact that he knows this is Sherlock Holmes, and therefore knows that this meeting is the end of the line - for both of them.

Obviously, Holmes doesn't seem to catch on to that.

"Why yes - and you won't believe how much work it took to climb out of my own grave."

"Sherlock," Dr. Watson walks over, putting his back to the sniper and placing himself warningly in front of the detective, "not the time, not the place."

Sebastian can only stare, entirely focused and unwavering at the taller man. They seem to go into a whispered conversation, harsh and angry words too quiet to comprehend, till Watson hits Holmes with a look that seems to end it all. Sebastian feels sick - not the i-just-got-punched-too-hard-and-am-gonna-hurl sick, but his anger has dropped into a molten lead ball in the pit of his stomach, and it's either his disgust at this man or lead poisoning, but he feels the need to puke and promptly fall into a rabies-inspired fit that'll leave Sebastian covered in blood and with a handful of notorious black curls.

Instead, he sits there. The lead poisoning focuses him, turns his anger and frustration into ice picks, into weapons, and he can't wait to get out of his binds.

Weapons in hand, Sebastian has never been one to wait. He knows this is going to be the end of both of them, this dingy cluttered living room. He can't wait to get out of these binds, can't wait to get started ~~can't wait to be finished~~.

"Whispering is not very polite," Sebastian calls out, icy anger causing him to over enunciate despite his deadpan tone. He wants their attention. He wants them to stop planning. Plans won't mean anything once he riles the goddamn detective up enough to untie Sebastian.

Instead, the fucking _Baker Street Boys!_ don't even look up from their near-silent exchange.

That just churns the molten lead ball even more.

"Easy to assume one's gossiping," he speaks up louder, still with that single tone of a man with a single goal.

They keep going. Sebastian keeps churning.

"You never know _what_ rumors might be spread." Sebastian was surprised to find a new edge to his otherwise impassive voice: sharp with warning, an underlying growl to the deadpan.

Still, the fucking _detective_ and his goddamn _pet_ kept. going.

"Oh, _for fucks sake!_ " He yells, pent up frustration hissing out before Sebastian retightens the cap to keep his anger in place.

They freeze, staring at him, as if admonishing a child for speaking out of turn.

It grates Sebastian's nerves. He's not some petulant kid, and he is _tired_ of waiting. He's tired. He just wants to get this over with, to take the bloody tall bastard with him, and be done.

_Oh god, he's so tired._

Holmes starts to take a step towards their fugitive, and Sebastian lights up with adrenaline, sitting a little straighter and ignoring the popping of his (dislocated? Previously dislocated?) shoulder as he does so. He's tired, but _he's so fucking ready_.

\- Till Watson grabs Sherlock by the back of his collar, pulling him back in, saying "No, no - You don't even know if - Sherl, this is - Just - No," in a voice trademarkly full with that feeling of verging on yelling, till they fall back into their heated whispering as before.

Goddammit, he was so fucking close and -

Sebastian tightens his fists against the arms of the chair, relishing in the feeling of cuts on his hand being reopened with the movement. _Breathe - 2 - 3 - 4, Out - 2 - 3 - 4_. He tries to refocus his anger, to not get lost in the red vision, to feel the molten lead ball in his stomach. He stretches his neck, feeling a contradictory twang at the sudden movement that calls a pulled muscle. He closes his eyes, against the goopy left one, and clenches his jaw. If he focuses, he can feel the stretch of blood drying in his - well, looks like that 5 o'clock shadow is now a short unkempt beard. God, how long was he out? Has it been a full day?

The idea of being in the asshat-deer-stalking-bastard's presence for so long really riles him up. His breaths come in shorter, angrier, puffs through his chest like a damn bull throwing itself against a fence.

He's pretty sure his molars are going to be ground into dust before he even gets his hands around the detective's neck.

Finally, the army doctor breaks first. Predictable.

"No. I'm not dealing with this right now. Gonna go get us some tea, and we're going to think through this _rationally_. Even you, Sherlock, would appreciate a _logical_ discussion of what to do."

Holmes and Sebastian watch him go into the kitchen, with a huff.

Very predictable.

" _A sane person to an insane society must appear insane_ ," Sebastian quotes under his breath.

The detective turns to him. "Vonnegut." He says - it wasn't a question, but a statement with a hint of surprise. " _We are healthy only to the extent that our ideas are humane_ ," Holmes quotes, turning to Sebastian, an obvious challenge.

" _Just because you can read, write, and do a little math doesn't mean you're entitled to conquer the universe_ ," Sebastian snarls out in response.

" _I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all_ ," comes the following.

" _Everything was beautiful, and nothing_ hurt," Sebastian said pointedly, following the statement by spitting blood onto carpet, hoping it stains.

" _Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before_ ," Watson joins in, coming back into the room with two hot cups. He hands one to Holmes, who takes it reflexively, still entirely focused on Sebastian. He knows that look - that dissection. It pisses him off that the detective thinks he's going to find anything useful by staring at Sebastian so intently.

" _If you die horribly, you will not have died in vain_ ," Sebastian continues, keeping his blistering eye contact with the fucking prick in front of him. Sebastian grins. " _At least you would have entertained us._ "

"That's not how that one goes," Holmes frowns.

"Huh, always seem to get that one wrong," Sebastian replies, letting his grin grow into that cold shark smile he knows is unnerving. He spits again, as blood continues to clot in his mouth. He chokes a little on the viscosity, eyeing the drinks his captors are holding. "Is it tea time already?"

Holmes continues to stare, to study. "Interesting."

Watson answers for Sebastian, who locks eyes again, "What is?"

_Fuck, if only looks could kill, then this would have all been over so fucking long ago._

Holmes breaks the staring contest ( ~~ _Suck it, fucker, I won_~~ ) to answer Watson. "I've always theorized of his existence, but to finally meet him in person is an entirely new case. To know what he is like, what kind of person he is, exhibits far more details than I would have expected."

"Take off these restraints and I'll show ya what I'm really like, you prick." The way Holmes was talking about him, in his presence, like he was a goddamn experiment was grinding every gear in Sebastian's body. The fact that Holmes was _right there!_ and yet still out of reach was aggravating every nerve. The audacity that Holmes was still breathing, after all - after all _that_ -

Well, Sebastian couldn't wait to correct that little fact.

"What I want to understand," Holmes approached him, grabbing Sebastian's chin as if to inspect his experiment's teeth, " is why he kept you alive? After all this time?"

Then fucking inspect them.

Sebastian twists his head to break out of the light grasp and bite Holmes' fingers. While he was aiming to bite them clean off (like carrots. Isn't that what he heard before? That the human jaw could bite through fingers as if they were carrots?), the stupid fucking detective was able to pull his hand back before Sebastian could do more than quickly draw blood.

"Funnily, wondering that same thing myself," Sebastian smiles up to the others, taking pleasure in knowing there's blood staining his teeth.

It better throw them the fuck off, if Sebastian has to sit in this uncomfortable fuck of a chair then he's going to make them fucking pay for it.

"You're a snarky one, aren't you?" Holmes seems... almost amused? At all this?

_What the fuck dude, you almost just lost your finger and you're still rattling the cage? The fuck do you think you're doing?_

"You're a bitchy one, aren't you?" Sebastian mocks, nursing the molten lead of anger with a scowl.

 

He doesn't see the punch coming.

 

Probably cause he didn't expect it to come from the doctor.

 

But his head is shot to the side, pain crackles across his face like electricity, and he can feel his skin split apart from the blow. He blinks, as if the repetition will ease the ringing in his ears, and forces himself to stay conscious. There will be a time to succumb to the high levels of pain and go under, but that time will come _later_.

Laughing, he turns back to face them.

"Well done, doc," he says, stretching his face muscles as best as he can. "Army doctor, indeed. Gotta say, didn't expect you to be the one delivering the blows, but makes sense. Mr. British Government probably doesn't want his brother's hands to get dirty and charged with kidnapping and harassment, eh?" He asks the detective, who looks just as shocked from the blow as Sebastian feels.

" _Mycroft_ , " Watson clarifies, "does not know that you are here. And he won't. You're going to help us with this case, and maybe - _maybe_ \- we can lessen the number of times that you will ' _fall out the window_ ' before the police come to take you in to custody." He's harsh, direct, and ramrod straight. His hands are in fists, but not clenched tightly - more like someone who's ready to fight, but not out of an overwhelming anger, but just now feeling in full control of their body.

Silence ensues.

Holmes is still looking incredulously at Watson, and Sebastian will admit - he's a little turned on. Of course, there's no way his body would be able to act on that, given that he's saving what little energy reserves and adrenaline boost he's got left for when he busts out of these ropes, but hey - a man can appreciate.

"Wow." Sebastian breaks the silence. "If I didn't know better, I might even be impressed."

Watson's demeanor doesn't fall, per se, but Sebastian _~~is~~ was_ Moriarty's right hand man - he _has_ learned a few things. He can see past the soldier, and he can see where the confidence breaks just a little in Watson's eyes. He can see the slight fear, the miniscule doubt, and while he may not have been as efficient as his old Boss in doing so, Sebastian knows he can manipulate that crack into something more.

"Of course, I do know better. But you obviously don't." He spits again, more blood running into his mouth (did he bite his tongue when he was punched? Damn, he must be out of practice). "You have no idea what you're getting into."

Maybe he'll cut off _Watson's_ tongue to kill him. That could be nice. Watch the panic as the doctor tries to run over scenarios to save himself, or count the seconds down till he loses too much blood to be brought back.

But for Holmes... Holmes needs something slower. More drawn out. He doesn't want to tie Holmes up and keep him for days - _god_ no, that'd get so boring. He wants Holmes to fight back. Maybe to choke him out, easing up at just the right time to allow Holmes enough air to stay conscious, to stay grappling at Sebastian's hands for relief... He could watch the light leave those stupid fucking grey eyes over and over again, watch the hope drain out after the third or fourth ti -

"I think we do." The detective's baritone interrupts Sebastian's daydreaming, causing his scowl to deepen as he looks up to the detective talking. "You're Sebastian Moran. Dishonorably discharged sniper despite serving your country for over a decade, who found a job as Moriarty's hitman where you could showcase your superior skills."

Well, yeah, okay. That's a pretty basic version of it, but technically all true.

"What I need to know, however, is why you're still alive. I've spent the last two years dismantling Moriarty's web, travelling across the world taking out those within his network. Only those too lower-level to really know what was going on remain. But you... You can't just be a simple hitman. One with your skills and experience would have made a name for themselves in Moriarty's network. Yet as of yesterday, you were still a theory."

Holmes had been getting closer this entire time, by now stopping and crouching to reach Sebastian's forced level. "Now, is it that you really are worth so little that you truly don't matter? Or rather, that you are an entirely different entity - one that is so important as to register utmost secrecy as to your existence?"

The molten ball by now, after all the churning and all the turmoil, has started to take shape. It cools in disgust and guilt and disappoint while Sebastian remembers the reason for Holmes' disappearance two years ago and all that has happened since then (every report of each piece in the game falling, being taken, like a dramatic game of chess.

Not that it truly matters, since the King piece had been taken out long ago.  
Not that _he_ truly matters - the useless pawn that couldn't have protected the King from the attack.)

\- But it doesn't cool with fear. Never fear. Sebastian isn't afraid of this play-pretend hero and his live-in. There is nothing - _nothing_ \- else that Holmes could take from Sebastian. There hasn't been. Sebastian officially has no more weak spots. He hasn't had any for two years now.

"I'd rather go with the latter. Which is exactly why you, Sebastian Moran, are going to tell us where Moriarty is."

He's figured out what that molten ball has shaped into.

It's a goddamn bullet.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He could _laugh_.

Well - would laugh, if he could. He tries, reflexively. An initial bark of laughter that deflates his lungs and sprays blood, but quickly digresses into Sebastian taking deep, shaky breaths, rapidly blinking back the blackness at the edge of his vision.

Alright, laughing hurts. There's most definitely a broken rib down there, somewhere, and Sebastian is setting himself a strict no-laughing-slash-any-kind-of-abdominal-movement rule. He breathes in, holding it, regaining control of his twitching muscles and failing body. He breathes out, blatantly ignoring the throbs and pings that echo up and down his spine and across his mind following the fit.

The cracked-rib spasm jarred the lead of emotions deep in his gut, and Sebastian can visualize the slow turn of a bullet, can feel the mindless twisting of the metal between his fingers, feels himself replicating the comforting repetition in the churning and grinding of his jaw. He thinks of the metaphorical bullet he feels sinking into him, poisoning his blood, and grounds himself by thinking of it forming physically into the roof of the blasted detective's mouth.

"I'm sorry," Sebastian's apology is tainted with the bitter chill of metal and sarcasm, "but I seem to have misheard you."

"I said," Holmes continued, unphased, standing back up. "You are going to tell us where Moriarty is."

Okay, well, first off: _no_.

  
First, Sebastian is _disgusted_ by the mere idea that he would ever willingly give that information, so much so that his stomach churns with the idea of rejecting everything in his system in order to dispute said disgust. Secondly, he is appalled at the notion that _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ could even think he'd be enough to get Sebastian to croak. Third and finally, he's hit with a harsh reminder of the reality - Sebastian can't tell Holmes what he wants, cause what he (the detective, the government, ~~the sniper~~ ) wants, is dead.

Oh yeah, that's right.

Maybe Sebastian really is going to throw up.

"Yeah, well, love to be the bearer of bad news, fuckers, but he's _dead_." Sebastian focuses on keeping a consistent deadpan, to avoid the poisoning of his emotions from leaking through, but with the sudden turn of conversation to.... their new topic, Sebastian can physically feel all the energy seeping out of him and onto the floor.

It's a cold feeling. Quite different than the burn of a reckless _I'm-gonna-scalp-everyone-in-this-room-and-drown-in-their-blood_ anger.

"No, he's not," the baritone demands, somewhere in front of Sebastian, but the ex-colonel is too busy staring at the floor, seeing if he can see the energy draining out of him soak into the carpet.

"Yeah, he is," is quiet, mindless. Another testament and reminder chills Sebastian a few more degrees. He realizes he's not wearing shoes. His sock has a hole in it.

_Yeah, he is._

Sebastian has already gone through the stages. He's done the anger, the acceptance, the binging, the destruction - okay, so he doesn't know the stages. What he does know, however, is that there's no point in talking about it, that Holmes is still going to die, and that there is _nothing_ Sebastian can do to change any of it.

For a genius, Holmes sure is an idiot. Holmes was there. He saw the body ( ~~he was supposed to be the body~~ ); he should be able to face the facts that Sebastian has. Ignorance of reality is not hope, has never been hope. There is no hope in Holmes' delusions. Hope was dead. Hope was dead years ago, when Sebastian went against the rules and switched his scope away from the doctor and towards the rooftop, over to the sound of a gunshot.

 _He_ is dead. In that, there is no doubt, no room for hope. He (the boss, the sniper, and now the _damn detective_ ) is dead, in all senses of the word. It's just a matter of time.

_It's just a matter of time._

And in that, Sebastian truly feels like a corpse - or well, a corpse in progress. If it wasn't for the burning of torqued muscles and the heat of an itch of drying blood on skin, then Sebastian knows the ice in his veins would permeate through the rest of his layers. He's cold in the lack of movement, the lack of adrenaline, the sudden lack of energy - It's a cold that, if manipulated correctly, can climb up his spine and into his brain, numbing all unnecessary thoughts and feelings and allowing that good little private drummed into his lizard brain to get the _goddamn job done_.

Which is just what he plans to do, Sebastian has decided.

"Well, in case it has missed your infinitesimal attention," Holmes continues. Sebastian continues to inspect the ground, ignoring the detective in favor of numbing his brain so he can wake back up to finish this new found job, "I'm not dead. And I know that he is not dead. So if you could kindly stop this derision, and tell us where he is."

Silence follows.

 _In-2-3-4, Out-2-3-4_. Sebastian closes his eyes (well, closes his one good eye), focuses on his breathing in a well-worn manner, recalibrating himself to ignore the deep throbs and stinging pains, to ignore the splitting ache in what's left of who Sebastian was, to focus on the chilled metal of the bullet in his gut that seems to be the epicenter of an icy crackle that Sebastian swears he can feel crawling up his spine - to take this numbness, and use the chill to wake himself up.

It's what _He_ would have done. What his Boss would have expected Sebastian to do.

Wake up, execute plan. Collapse afterwards, if needed.

The silence continues, now with a heavy weight of inevitability. Sebastian can only hope that the damn detective feels his own imminent end as well.

"There are ways to make you speak."

Sebastian snaps his head up with a bark of laughter. "' _There are ways to make you speak_ '? God, what _are_ you? A cliche 60's villain?" He laughs some more, shaking his head as much as he dares with the throbbing that he could swear is shifting the plates in his skull. "Fuck you," he says with more laughter than malice. The malice is numb, unusable, locked away by Private Lizard Brain. "This truly is laughable. Sherlock Holmes, is actually an idiot. Huh."

"I _know_ he's not dead," Holmes persists.

"Yeah, _the fuck he is_ ," Sebastian laughs meaningless. The numbness threatens to shut Sebastian down again, to go too far, but the ex-colonel has had far too much practice in riding this fine line in the past couple years to allow it to do so. "Accept reality, dipshit."

_Accept reality, Sebastian._

Reality, however, is realizing that no matter how set Sebastian is on taking out Holmes now that he has him in his grasps, Sebastian's grasp is still quite limited to the ropes binding him to the chair and the dislocated shoulder affecting his reach.

  
Reality can suck.

Especially when it's quite _literally_ slapped back into your forebrain by an unexpecting backhand.

Sebastian's head twists to follow through with the backhand, something popping at the jarring movement. _Breathe-2-3-4_. He takes stock of his current state (left gloop of an eye, shuddering broken rib/ribs, dislocated yet twitching shoulder, sticky blood pooling on his tongue, throbbing deep laceration under his thigh, and many more aches and twinges that accumulate to the heavy sharp cotton muffling his head and pulsating with each heartbeat), calculates the odds of fighting back while tied up in Reality, and painfully - _achingly_ \- against all wishes - turns his head back to unsmiling stone-faced Virgin before him.

Reality is also the inevitability that Sebastian will get his hands around that sickeningly unblemished throat in front of him. It's just a matter of time.

_It's just a matter of time._

* * *

Sebastian can be patient - when he needed to be.

It's a necessary skill as a sniper. Marksmanship, range estimation, stalking, sure - but patience is what allows a sniper to lay still in position for hours until the target comes in to view, and allows the sniper to take the needed focus for the split second of a hair trigger decision -

So Sebastian had to be patient, at times.

Still doesn't mean he has to appreciate patience.

It feels like 34 hours later that he finally catches a break, but very well could have been just twenty minutes. Time is getting harder to keep track of, and Sebastian can't rely on the light coming in from the window anymore - Lights are blaring and dimming, waxing and waning with every flex of his lungs, shapes are distorted and colors muted by the sweat and blood and bruises covering his line of sight, and sound is - 

Sound is too far away to be clear, and covered by the rushing static pinging around his head, interfered with the thrumming of his rapid heart rate he can feel vibrate all the way through his ear tips.

There's no feeling of hot or cold anymore. Sebastian can only ground himself on the arm of the chair with shakingly-exhausted grip, and continue to smile up at the damn detective. Bare his teeth. Let the bastard know that _it is just a matter of time._

He's not sure where his feet are under him, or what day it is, but he's still damn sure of how this is going to end - and with the end in sight, Sebastian is willing to keep going.

Of course, that's when Holmes takes a step back to his beloved doctor.

Sebastian's head falls limp, and that's when he realizes he was only upright as he was being held up by his hair. The rushing static notches up a few frequencies.

_Out-2-3-4._

The problem is, is that while Sherlock may not be the " _Ice-man_ " that his brother is, Sebastian is still - unpleasantly - surprised to find Sherlock's moral compass having little influence over his actions. And by moral compass, he means John Watson.

Maybe Watson left, leaving Holmes on his own? Sebastian pulls his 30-pound weight of a head back up, straining the neck muscles to do, allowing him to flop his head back but still get a distorted view of the room around him.

Of course, Watson didn't leave. Of course, they're back to harsh whispering.

It makes sense now, the form of torture Holmes has chosen - because _of bloody course_ Holmes knows torture.

The thing about torture - which is definitely not what is happening here, as Sebastian definitely has the upper hand - is that it is more than just cuts and bruises. It's about finding the weakness, and exploiting it. Sebastian has been trained and has put said training to the test to withstand standard torture of starvation, sleep deprivation, blood loss - and that was his time after his service.

Torture is about the little things and the massive amounts of fear attached to them. It's about the toenails, the fingers, the eyes. It is the fear of things that won't heal back, the pain of losing something you use on the daily. You rip off the toenails so the victim can't walk without the pain and the remembrance. You break the fingers so the hands become useless. You slice the eyeball to show the audacity that _nothing is off the table_.

And that's why this isn't torture.

Because, see, Sebastian doesn't have anything to lose.

He'll get out of these ropes, and he'll use whatever he has left to end the deerstalking fuckface in front of him, and after that - Well, after that, Sebastian has finished ~~the final problem~~ the mission, and will no longer be of service.

So it doesn't matter the specifics of Holmes' punches or pulls or - he's pretty sure there was a riding crop involved? - whatever the amateur chose, because Sebastian will still find a way to rip out the bastard's jugular - with his bare _teeth_ if he has to - and _bathe_ in the last of his blood.

There is, however, one thing bothering Sebastian: Holmes knows torture.

So, why isn't he torturing? Or, ' _making him talk_ '?

Everything done has been superficial, a-bit-deeper-than-skin-deep but not psychologically damaging.

Hell, it's painful, but again - if there is one thing Sebastian is _intimately_ familiar with, it's pain.

He realizes his head has flopped back down, chin-to-chest, when he is once again grabbed roughly by the hair. The pitching static fluctuates with the movement, and a glaring flash of a picture being taken overloads his circuits and causes everything to white-out.

"gobba - " Sebastian spits out the thickening blood from his mouth, feeling it go as far as his dribbling down his chin, and tries again. "Gotta save some spank for the later bank, eh?"

And once again, he's ignored for the harsh whispering.

And, _once again_ , his head is left to jar against his chest, causing the static to turn to internal screams.

He chokes on the blood changing the direction of the flow - _thanks, gravity, you bitch_ \- and instinctual coughs it up and out onto the growing pile on the floor, against the pleas of his screaming head and demands of his shuddering ribs. His lungs spazz, his ribs deny, and Sebastian finds himself staring at the stained carpet, willing it to _stop_ swirling and his peripherals to _stop_ spinning.

"It'll work, John, it _will_." With his sight currently under construction, Sebastian detours to involuntarily focus on sound in an attempt to ground himself, as if sound waves can stop the perpetual movement of the Newton's cradle that must be the two hemispheres of his brain.

"Sherlock, how can we even be sure he would have the same number? Surely he must have changed it when he went under...?"

"He would have saved it, for him. Even if... even if he was not coming back. The message history shows - "

"Yes I bloody know what the message history shows. And _your_ history - " Sebastian shuts his eyes as the screaming ratchets up the volume, momentarily drowning out all else in a wave of pain and high pitched static. His head is packed with vibrating metal nails, and if it would take his heart stopping to stop the pulsations of his heartbeat echoing around up there, then Sebastian would _strangle himself_ \- if he could. If his hands weren't tied down. If he could find his body again, and if he could lift a finger without shaking like a quake and giving up.

"I'll be... Joh... and then... stra..." Sound is ebbing as soon as it flows in, the motion making Sebastian feel more nauseous than before. Oh _fuck_ , if this really is lead poisoning, then Sebastian regrets every time he didn't care to check the flat for lead paint and every time he failed to clean a spoon. That would affect it, right? A metal spoon? Did he have lead spoons? Why would he have lead spoons -

 _Oh god_ , the bile rises in his throat - or, what Sebastian is fairly certain is his throat. His body is simultaneously overheated and frozen in a way that tells of upcoming sick, the screaming nails have decided to harmonize disastrously, and Seb can swear he can feel them pricking into the soft grey brain matter.

 _I think I'm going to be sick_ , he thinks and has enough time to hear the tell-tale _whoosh_ of an outgoing text message before he corrects himself - _oh shit, I'm definitely going to be sick._

He passes out before he can even try.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, everyone thank VICM for helping me do the thing with the pictures! It's a thing now!
> 
> And now that you've seen how great these texts are from unsenttextstomoran.tumblr.com, you can go binge their tumblr and cry with me! Ain't that swell!

**Author's Note:**

> you can yell at me on tumblr @anotherday-anotherdoug or @sniper-nosniping


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